


In Our Quiet Spaces

by TehChouHenshins (TehChou)



Series: Growing Like Summer Leaves [2]
Category: Kamen Rider W (Double)
Genre: Body Shyness, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:59:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChouHenshins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philip talks Shoutarou into having sex.</p><p>Set after You'll Get Your Kiss Someday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Our Quiet Spaces

“Shoutarou, will you come with me?”

Shoutarou glances up from his book, blinking his way back into reality.

"What?" He asks, then, "Well, I suppose it depends on where we're going."

Philip leans in, lips brushing against his cheek. Shoutarou swallows, shifts, the sensation still new enough that he still doesn't quite know how to react to such displays of affection.

"What was that for," he asks, though his lips twist in a half smile.

Philip's eyes are dark when he pulls back.

"Come to bed with me," he says.

"I-- what?" He doesn't-- He can't possibly mean-- "Bed?"

"Mm," he says and he tilts his head. His fingers trail over Shoutarou's chin in a drifting pattern, slide back to touch his ear, down his neck, running over the pounding vein, dipping into the hollow of his collar bone. His eyes flick up, curious and Shoutarou swallows around the sudden thickness in his throat.

"Ph-Philip," he hisses, but Philip just looks pleased.

"You're interested," he says and Shoutarou wuffs out a breath.

"I'm-"

Philip's fingers catch on his chin, lift his face up.

"I'm going to take a shower. Wait for me."

Shoutarou swallows again.

"Alright," he says, faint and quiet.

Philip kisses him, once, just a hint of tongue and passion, quick and dizzying. He leaves, and Shoutarou's head thunks back against his chair, neck craned and just barely catching his hat before it falls. He runs a hand over his face, scrubbing feeling back into his numb, hot cheeks, before shoving himself abruptly to his feet.

His partner's going to be the death of him.

He trails after Philip a few minutes later, just as he's coming out from the bathroom. Hot steam wafts in smokey whirls from his naked skin, only a towel slung low around his hips. Shoutarou freezes, eyes going wide as he stares, more of his body than even Shoutarou as his partner has ever seen.

Philip takes in his regard, and his expression dissolves into something slow, pleased. He crosses to Shoutarou, reaching out, and fingers catch on his lips, rubbing slow and Shoutarou can feel every swirl worked into the pads. His skin tastes clean, fresh washed and cool against the inner heat of his mouth. Shoutarou opens a little wider and the soft flesh sinks in a little deeper, almost of its own volition. Philip's voice hitches and his teeth worry his own lips in a phantom mirror.

"You should shower," Philip says, hand shifting to slide over his cheek. "That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? The culturally appropriate ritual for these things."

"These things. . . ." Shoutarou repeats, faintly. "Have you ever even. . . ?"

"No," Philip replies, unperturbed. "Have you?"

Shoutarou's face heats.

"Of course I have," he says, indignant. "I mean-- yes. Yes. Of course. Jesus, why are we talking about this?"

"Hmm," says Philip, but he doesn't say anything further on the subject. His hand drops and he turns away. "I think we've waited long enough," He says. "I don't care if you're clean. Let's go."

"Oh god," Shoutarou says and let's himself be dragged, the curtain pulled shut behind them and sequestering them into their own, secret world.

It's a tight fit for two people but they make do.

"Your hair is soft," Philip says, head tilted, eyes intent as he reaches up one hand to take the hat from his head and run his fingers through; light at first, testing. Shoutarou barely dares to breathe. A smiles hovers at the edges of Philip's lips. "I always thought it might be. It was one of the first things I thought of; wondering what your hair felt like, but the archives never answered me."

"Hah, you're just figuring that out now," he mumbles, a confused mockery of his usual bravado. Philip shakes his head, twirling a strand around his pinky.

"I just thought you should know."

He shifts, and the loose knot of his towel comes undone. He wiggles out of it, until he's sitting on top, naked and unashamed.

"I want you to touch me," he says and Shoutarou can't help it, his eyes flick down, catch for a moment on the shape of his cock, still flexible, laying quiet against his skin. Philip laughs a little and spreads his legs, coming forward and taking his hand.

Shoutarou winds up tangling their fingers together, squeezing, and pulling back when his fingernails snag against tender skin.

"Sorry," he mutters, but Philip has a hand at his throat, tugging on his tie, loosening it, skating over the fabric of his shirt.

"Did you know? There are people who can tell the make of a fabric just from touch. Your tie is polyester, it catches on itself like this, you see?"

And no, Shoutarou doesn't really see, but Philip does. Philip sees so many things, bright and focused and _alive_. Shoutarou would have been content just to watch him until the end of his days if it wasn't for. . . this.

"Will you take it off for me?"

Shoutarou puts a hand to the apparent polyester of his tie. Philip kisses where their fingers are joined and lets him go, content to watch.

Every layer he sheds feels like he's taking out a piece of himself, laying it down here where someone else is watching, where it becomes painfully obvious that everything he is can be reduced to a crumpled pile of discarded fabric. Usually, he does this where no one else can see, steals into the bathroom where he doesn't have to look if he doesn't want to, doesn't have to face himself alone.

His hands shake when he tries to unbutton his shirt. He fumbles with them for a moment, swearing quietly under his breath, staring down at it, but they won't cooperate. He jumps when Philip takes his hands away, leaving him hovering as Philip glides down his chest, revealing bare skin in his wake. He smooths away the dark fabric, finding the spot over his ribs.

He looks up at him and smiles.

"Stop worrying. We'll be alright. We always are."

Shoutarou swallows.

"Yeah," he says and Philip ducks his head again, presses his lips to his, soft and sweet and cooling in the air when he pulls back. His shirt comes off with a few gentle tugs. Shoutarou's hands twitch with the urge to cover himself but he holds himself still as Philip, for a long moment, looks with quiet hunger. His gaze snaps back up to meet his, like something's startled him out of his reverie.

"I'm-" Philip starts, and a little furrow forms between his brows as he considers his words. "I'm not sorry," he says finally. "You're very attractive."

Shoutarou laughs a little, but it fades under the steady weight of his silence. It's not like he hasn't ever been told that before, but there's something so raw in the way Philip says it, frank, like there's no question it's the truth and the idea is too foreign for this moment that's already overwhelming him.

Philip kisses him again, and if there's frustration in the creases of his eyes, his quiet patience showing its cracks, Shoutarou's seen its like often enough that it's a comfort. Philip's hands become a gentle pressure against his chest, urging him down and Shoutarou lets his eyes close, just for a moment, and his head sink back into the pillow.

Philip's mouth is warm and soft and sweet, and Shoutarou _wants_ him, he wants him, to touch him, to hold him, to not _hold back_ , but he's a fuck-up; victories are hard won for him, and precious.

But he's not doing this alone, not by a long shot, and Philip's tongue is tangible on his, licking inside of him with all the fervor his adolescent body possesses, breaking out of his control because Philip wants _him_ too, a mutual thing, partners in hopeful bliss. Philip's hands find his hair again and sound rumbles through where their chests are touching, a quiet moan as Philip tangles them together. He's a warm weight on top of him, skin springy with the moisture trapped from his shower. His cock is caged in against his yielding thigh, the shape of it obvious in its irregularity, and Shoutarou shifts, feeling it move and harden just a little more.

"Shoutarou," Philip gasps into his open mouth. He rocks his hips, breath sticking and catching in his throat, squeezed out of him with soft sound, eyes closed and the lines of his face tensed in concentration. He doesn't kiss him again, just hovers, their mouths brushing and their breath mixing and Shoutarou can smell the mint of his toothpaste.

He's beautiful.

"Shoutarou," he repeats and then he's lifting off of him enough to get a hand between them, to find where his slacks are fastened, and tweaking them open with a flick of his wrist. Shoutarou lifts himself and Philip both on unsteady arms, not thinking, not thinking, as they slide off him, tangling briefly in the bulk of his socks.

"Philip," he hisses, when his hand finds him, already half-hard with the slow burning in his stomach, guilt and shame and lust and love all rolled together into a kinked up knot. Philip rocks against him, hair still tangled, lips still seeking, palm just a little damp, urging him higher. Shoutarou moans into the folds of his mouth.

When Shoutarou's hard and aching, Philip's hand goes away for a moment, leaving him with a soft whimper undercut by the low, constant noise coming from his partner. Philip's breath hitches sharply, and when it comes back again he's raising himself up to sit straddled on Shoutarou's legs.

"Ah," Shoutarou says, drunk and confused, but Philip just watches him, eyes filled with sharp brilliance.

He sinks his weight down on him, slow, in little rocks and starts. He's wet with the lubricant he apparently found, and his chest heaves, skin dancing over bone in intricate patterns and his eyes close in apparent ecstasy. His hands knead where they meet muscle, sprawled out in support against Shoutarou's chest, a dancing rhythm that falls apart in unexpected ways, flushed and shaking and uncomposed. It's a heady show of faith and though the sparks of pleasure shooting through him urge him to throw his head back, close his eyes again and fall to the rhythm, Shoutarou refuses to miss a second, etching every shudder and quiet, needy sob into his mind. He raises a shaking hand, the other clenched in the sheets, slides a palm over Philip's cheek. Philip's eyes flutter, close, and he leans into the touch, nuzzling at his palm and filling Shoutarou with an aching affection that stings like needles in his breast. Words catch in his throat and then Philip rolls his hips in a wave that sinks him all the way down, swallowing every inch of him. Shoutarou's hips thrust in involuntary reaction, lifting Philip clean off the mattress as he lets out a wobbly cry.

Philip opens his eyes when they come back down, falling into an easy cadence. He looks wrecked, mouth swollen and red from lips locked and eyes half-lidded and filled to bursting with lust. He smiles, cheek shifting against soft skin, looking down at him, secret and pleased.

" _Hello_ ," he says in English and Shoutarou barely notices the word is anything more than beautiful motion. Philip's smile slips into something softer, hazy, and he leans down, shifting around him and making him whimper as their lips come together again.

When they come, it's in tandem, as in tune with each other as they are in everything else. 

Philip falls asleep on him after that, sprawled over him with his face buried in his shoulder, a damp spot sinking into Shoutarou's skin where Philip drools. If he was awake, Shoutarou would yell, make a big deal of throwing a fit, Philip's laughter dancing between them. Instead, he touches him with a bolder hand, eyes open staring up at the ceiling, running over his back in absent caresses. 

He presses a kiss to wild tangle of his hair, and eventually, he sleeps, cotton in his veins and acceptance settling like cool water in his heart.


End file.
